


The Perfect Pillow

by queenie_writes



Series: Road Trips [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 00:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21329467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenie_writes/pseuds/queenie_writes
Summary: Keeping up appearances is hard, but sometimes Quinn's a pro at it. He's not as good at Matt at it, but, he's pretty good.
Relationships: Quinn Hughes/Matthew Tkachuk
Series: Road Trips [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670737
Comments: 11
Kudos: 135





	The Perfect Pillow

**Author's Note:**

> Perhaps the most random of my pairs, but I promise you, they're great.
> 
> As with everyone else, if you or someone you know is in this fic, please close the window now and forget you've ever seen this cursed story. No good can come of it. 
> 
> All typos are mine and I love them as though they are my precious children. I nurtured them and forgave them their sins and accidentally ignored them when I read over this. Possibly because I have read it so many times that the words become nothing more than sounds.

Quinn doesn’t see the hit coming. He’s too focused on the puck pressed against the boards. He’s battling with someone dressed in red, but he doesn’t know who. 

Everything is moving too fast.

His breath comes out in sharp bursts, exhausted and strained. The exertion is starting to get to him. The blade of his skate catches the puck and he kicks it free just as his body hits the unmoving and unforgiving wall he’d already been pressed against. The wind is knocked from his chest - what little he had left in his lungs. His legs give out from under him. His knees hit the ice and the weight of what hit him is removed. 

For a brief moment, he considers the possibility of simply laying down, letting the exhaustion take over and pull him into a cocoon of comfortable silence as he hits the ice. He’s being dramatic, he knows it, but it’s still an idea he considers. That is until the rest of the noise catches up with him. Its a cacophony in his head, everything is sped up, like it's moving in fast forward. He doesn't know where to look or who to focus on. There is so much going on around him. When he finally notices the fray around him, his eyes focus on the colors more than who they belong to. White and blue mix with red and yellow and black. It is bodies piled against each other and words screamed in anger and frustration.

Quinn finds his feet as soon as he can and suddenly, he understands what’s happening. Boeser is pushing and shoving a player on the other team, anger paints the features of the normally bright and happy face. Quinn has seen it before, but he can’t imagine getting used to it.

The helmet of the player Brock is fighting with slips to the side and a tuft of dark blonde curls poke out. Quinn’s heart races in his chest, panic wells up inside him pounding to the beat of a drum only he can hear. Blood pulses in his ears and the sounds around him fade as the panic morphs into something else. Quinn doesn't have the ability to understand what he's feeling. All he knows is that it needs to stop. He needs to stop it. He jumps into action, arms looping around Brock and pulling him off the other man. 

“Don’t,” he says quietly so only Brock can hear him. “It’s not worth it.” No good can come from fighting Tkachuk, they both know it. Brock doesn’t relent so easily and Quinn has to use some of the strength he no longer has to wrench Brock away from the scuffle.

The black and white stripes intervene shortly after Quinn gets Brock out of the scrum. A whistle is blown. Possibly it’s still being blown. Matt is being pushed away from the dense clump of bodies. There’s a smirk on his face, a classic look most know all too well. He’s pleased with himself for causing the fight. Quinn watches him silently while he holds Brock back there’s a slight shake to his head barely noticeable to anyone. 

“I’m gonna kill him,” Brock says suddenly, and it’s all Quinn can do to keep Brock where he is. The sudden surge of anger from the blonde Canuck is preceded by a kiss blown in their direction from the one on his way to his referee appointed timeout. Quinn rolls his eyes and skates both him and Brock back to the bench.

“Are you okay?” Bo asks, once he gets back to the bench and can finally sit down. Always the captain. Even when he wasn’t the captain, he was the captain.

“Yeah,” Quinn says as he stretches himself out a little. “Just a bit sore. Tkachuk knows how to hit.” There is a scoff from next to Quinn, Brock is still fuming.

“Just wait till he gets out of the box,” Brock grinds out. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are dark with fury. “I’m gonna -”

“No,” Quinn says firmly, “You won’t. Leave Tkachuk to me.” Quinn doesn’t know what he’s going do, but whatever it is, it’s better than Brock getting kicked out of the game, or worse, pummeled into the ice. He wouldn’t put it past Matt.

There’s no room for argument with the way Quinn’s voice forms the words and both Bo and Brock nod once. “We got your back,” Brock says instead.

It’s nice not having to argue with his teammates on this, but at the same time, Quinn can’t help but wonder what his plan for Tkachuk actually is. He didn’t think it out when he told Brock to drop it. He just didn’t want to deal with the aftermath of the fight.

His next shift is thankfully Matthew Tkachuk free. He manages to find himself either coming or going at the exact times Matt is going or coming. It makes it easy to not have to put a plan into action. His last shift of the night has the Canucks up by two and an empty-net goal from Petey cements their win, the Canuck’s bench is an uproar of excitement. Tempers, however, are running a little high from the Flames and Quinn finds himself battling Matt for the puck at the back of Demko’s net.

He’s tired and worn out and really just wants to go back to his hotel room with two points and a notch in the win column. He gives Matt a solid hip check and uses him to propel himself forward as he skates off with the puck. There’s a glint in Quinn’s eyes that isn’t normally seen, but he doesn’t bother to hide it. He doesn’t typically get one over on the older Tkachuk. He’s going to savor that feeling for the moment.

The clock ticks down and the buzzer sounds, ending the game. The Canucks bench is alive with the win as they skate off the ice and down the tunnel. The Flames are much more subdued, their egos burnt out. Quinn catches Matt’s eye as they exit. There’s a pinch of irritation in his features but they soften slightly when he sees Quinn. Quinn is the only one that notices because he’s the only one that knows what to look for.

**

Quinn’s phone buzzes in his pocket while he stands at the bar. Brock and Petey are conversing loudly off to the side of him. No, that’s false. Brock is conversing loudly. Quinn can barely hear Petey, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s saying something and Brock is far more focused on that than he is Quinn. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. There’s a text waiting for him, though if anyone looked at the screen, they wouldn’t understand any of it. There are three numbers on the screen and he just shakes his head and smiles a little.

“Whatcha got there?” Brock asks, arm slinging over Quinn’s shoulder.

Quinn startles a little and turns the phone over. He hadn’t opened the message. Hadn’t needed to. He knew what the message meant. “Nothing,” he says with a shrug. “Just a message from Luke.” Luke was his younger brother and an easy scapegoat for this type of conversation. He wasn’t around to betray the lie.

Quinn sets his drink and shrugs out of Brock’s hold. “I think I’m going to crash, though. I’m kind of sore.” The moment he says it, he realizes just how true it is. His body feels like its 80 years old.

“It was that hit Tkachuk did,” Brock says, he’s glaring a little again and Quinn sighs.

“Probably,” he says simply because he’s probably right. Matt had hit him pretty hard. "But he's not the only one on the ice, man."

“Best to rest while you can,” Petey agrees. Cutting Brock off in the process of arguing against Quinn's point. 

“I’ll see ya guys,” Quinn says before tapping the bar and exiting the overcrowded, and overly warm establishment. He hadn't opened a tap, instead deciding to pay for his drink with cash because he knew he wasn't going to stick around long.

The ride up to the 3rd floor is smooth and finding the room associated with the number on his phone is easy. His knock is quick, a single knuckle rapped on the door once. He barely has time to put his hand in his pocket before the door is wrenched open and he’s pulled inside.

“That took you forever,” The smooth deep American voice says.

“Got hung up.” Quinn’s answer is muffled and cut off as he’s pressed against yet another wall by the weight of Matthew Tkachuk. What little air is left in his lungs is quickly stolen by a kiss placed on his lips. Quinn is more content at that moment to wrap his arms around the back of Matthew’s neck and pull him tighter against him than he is to push him away as he had on his last shift.

“I hate waiting,” Matt says. The words are mumbled against Quinn’s lips and he smiles.

“That’s ‘cuz you’re bad at it,” Quinn says with a snort. Anyone who knew Matt knew it was true. The guy was the actual embodiment of the character Mike TV from Willi Wanka. All hyper and loud and slightly violent. He has the patience and understanding of a toddler. 

“Hey,” he says, pulling back from the kiss, “are you complaining?” 

“No,” Quinn laughs, “No, of course not, but you could do with getting used to it sometimes.” Patience wasn’t something Quinn had either, not when it came to meeting up with Matt, but he hadn’t had a chance to leave the bar right away. 

Matt pokes Quinn in the side while he laughs. "Stop being mean, then. That's my job." 

Quinn's laugh is cut off with a sharp hiss and he involuntarily pushes Matt away. 

“Oh shit,” Matt says as he steps back, allowing Quinn the space he requested. “What’s wrong?” 

“Sore,” Quinn says honestly. 

"What, why?" He asks. Quinn has to smack Matt’s hand away to stop him from pulling up his shirt. 

“Knock it off,” Matt smacks Quinn’s hand in return and grabs for the dress shirt Quinn wears. “Let me see.” 

He huffs and drops his hands while Matt untucks his shirt and lifts it. Quinn didn't notice anything out of the ordinary when he got out of his gear in the away locker room, but that doesn't really mean there isn't anything there. 

“Shit, Quinn,” Matt says before glancing up at him, “Was that my fault?” He sounds… Not sad but a little more shocked than Quinn expected. It's almost like he's sorry.

“Don’t you know, everything is your fault?” Quinn jokes as he swats Matt away from him and moves from the door into the room. It wasn’t Matt’s fault. He took other hits on the ice tonight as well as other hits a few days ago. It’s not just Matt. 

“Quinn, seriously.” 

“Matt, relax, it’s nothing. Just a bruise. You can’t tell me you don’t have a few yourself.” 

Quinn is sure Matt has them. Boes went pretty hard on him throughout the rest of the game. Virts wasn't exactly nice, either. Matt took his fair share of hits. Quinn wasn't fretting over him like some worried mother hen. 

Quinn finds the bed, slips out of the dress shirt, because it's already untucked and messed up, and kicks his shoes off before he allows himself to crash onto the overly plush fabric. It’s not as luxurious as it could be, but Matt shouldn’t be spending money on a hotel room when he has a perfectly lovely home. This works for what it is. 

Matt stands in the alcove between the door and the bed sputtering frustrations. “You didn’t tell me you were hurt.” 

“I’m not,” he protests as he turns over on the bed, “it’s just a couple bruises. It happens.” He wasn’t actually hurt. Just sore. “It’s nothing a little rest won’t fix.” He eyes Matt from his spot on the bed and smirks, "Are you going to join me on this bed or will I be sleeping alone?" Like every other night, he doesn't add. 

Matt walks over to the bed, “Rest, huh?" he asks, "then that’s what we’re going to do.” Matt slides into the bed and pulls Quinn into him. “We’ll order room service and watch TV and just... rest.” 

Quinn wants to protest but he also doesn’t get to spend a lot of time with Matt anymore. They’ve been together for over a year now but he’s pretty sure if he added up the hours they saw each other it wouldn’t even equal three months. He’s also tired in general and being tucked into Matt’s side feels nice. “Fine,” he says eventually. The fight no longer exists. His body is learning to become one with the bed under him. 

Matt settles into the bed and reaches for the remote to find something to watch. There’s no more talk about injuries or hits. No talk about hockey or sports. Quinn doesn’t even notice what’s on the TV, too busy just listening to the beat of Matt’s heart and letting himself relax. It was rare to get Matt to calm down long enough to settle, but perhaps it was because of the adrenaline from the game waning. 

Petey was right, rest was exactly what he needed. Matt was the perfect pillow to lay his head on.

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE let me know what you think. I know this is a rare pair and I'm not expecting much but if ya come across it and like it, let me know. 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr - c-hartwriteshockey.tumblr.com


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